Standing at the edge of the ocean, everything seems possible. The endlessness of the sea makes me believe in beginnings.
Mere seconds pass before I cry out, unable to withstand the torture any longer. My toes sting as I race toward a patch of sun and bury my feet. The cool sand lurking underneath does little to alleviate my chill, but still … it was worth it.
Returning down the same wooden path, I run into the clique of beautiful bods—the lifeguards. A morning beach run is a requirement of their job. Of the three female lifeguards, only Chelsea does the run in a two-piece bathing suit. Emblazoned with “guard” across the chest in capital letters, the red, sporty bikini is even more intimidating than her orange-and-black cheerleading uniform. And that has a tiger paw plastered across the front.
A couple of the guys nod slightly as they pass me. Though we all recognize one another, the rules in play in the halls of the high school extend to the dunes of the beach. If you wave to me during homeroom, you wave to me here. If you nod to me during the change of classes, you nod to me here. If you ignore me during gym, like Chelsea does, you ignore me here.
If you make me unable to speak in the cafeteria, you make me unable to speak here. Like Nate. Nathan Reese, the cute lifeguard, star lacrosse player, soon-to-be senior. He’s heading straight for the path I’m hurrying down. I reach the end and duck through the side door of the concession shack.
I shouldn’t really worry about running into him and being rendered mute. So far, “hi,” “here you go,” and “thanks” form the core of our conversations. Nate does his part to save the world by bringing his own reusable water bottle to work, and I’ve spent the past week being his water girl, refilling the stainless steel bottle from the sink in my little shack two, sometimes three, times a day. Yesterday, when he tilted the bottle toward me and winked before returning to his perch on the lifeguard stand, I was especially grateful the transactions don’t require much verbalization.
I jump as Zoe, my coworker, swings open the door and lets it clank shut behind her. Her short, dark brown hair, secured by a dingy white scrunchie, juts out from the back of her head like a stunted tail.
She stomps over to the counter, plops her bag on top, and grunts a hello. “It’s your turn to refill the ketchup bottles.”
She’s been in a bad mood all week. It took me two days to realize when she was complaining about not being good enough to be a point guard, she was talking about basketball and not some branch of the military.
The only way out of a Zoe mood is to allow a Zoe rant. “Tough day again yesterday?” I ask, tentatively.
“He thinks I’m hopeless. He actually said that. My own brother. What does he know, right?”
A lot, as she’s explained to me. Zoe’s older brother is a superstar basketball player at Providence College. He’s home for a couple of weeks before heading to some training camp, and Zoe’s desperate for him to turn her into a female version of himself before he leaves.
“If only I were taller,” Zoe says. “That’s his expert advice.”
She opens a pack of gum and shoves three pieces into her mouth. She holds the pack out to me, but I shake my head. On the list of annoying Zoe traits, her gum popping comes in a close second to her incessant talk about dribbling.
She smacks her gum as her eyes travel up and down my body. “How tall are you, anyway?”
I shrug before bending over and hiding among the condiment containers.
*
Zoe’s in the bathroom and I’m still playing with ketchup bottles when I hear a voice.
“Anyone know whose bike this is?”
Not a voice. Nate’s voice.
I peek above the sun-bleached wood counter. Nate is standing in front of the snack bar, his lifeguard shirt slung across one shoulder and his hands on the handlebar of my flashy bike.
Sometimes I wonder if he hasn’t been granted a wish. Those are not the abs of a normal seventeen-year-old boy.
I smooth the sides of my hair, ensuring all the ends are tucked inside my ponytail, before fully surfacing. I chicken out. Instead of answering with words, I wave.
“Azra, you really shouldn’t leave…”
I know he’s talking, but I have no idea what he’s saying because I’m stuck on the “Azra.” Nate knows my name?
He’s staring at me, and I know I’m supposed to reply. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to reply. I brace myself against the counter and mumble, “Uh-huh.”
“Do you have a minute now?” he asks. “I can show you where to lock it, but we have to do it fast. You have a lock at least, right?”
I don’t, but I can get one. I hold up one finger and sink down, concentrating as hard as I can. When I return to an upright position, it is with a conjured bike lock in hand.
“Great,” he says, “I’m late for the run.”
He can close the gap. He’s faster than all of them—something my mild stalking has permitted me to notice.
“You’ll catch them easily,” I say before I realize my mouth has opened.
Imperceptible to anyone not ogling him as I am, his muscled shoulders fall the slightest bit as he curves them in. “You’ve … you’ve seen me run?”
“No, well, yes. Maybe just a couple of times. When I was picking up garbage on the beach.” Garbage, how romantic.
Walking behind Nate to the bike rack I had no idea existed, I resist the urge to touch the top of his head to see if his close-cropped black hair feels as soft as it looks.
“Here,” he says. “Lock it next to mine.”
“You bike to work?” The water bottle is one thing, but everything else about him screams red convertible.
He maneuvers my bike into the rack and takes the lock from my hand. His fingers brush my palm, and a tingle spreads through my body. I try to pay attention to his words instead of his abs as he talks about the cost of fuel and the danger of emissions and the increase in global warming.